Climbing Walls
by flecksofpoppy
Summary: Written for the Kink Meme request: Eric/Alan - slow, sweet first time - It starts on his desk, ends on his bed. Eric just wants to give Alan the best, the Thorns constantly nagging at his mind.


**Climbing Walls**

The ticking of the clock, the repetitive scratch of Eric's pen, and the sound of fabric rustling as Alan readjusts his position for what seems like the thousandth time is driving him mad. The last time he'd sat idle for this long in Eric's office in the same uncomfortable chair was during his final review as a junior, and even that had seemed shorter.

Finally, Eric puts his pen down, and the clock strikes to six p.m. He looks up at Alan, and Alan looks at him.

"How are you feeling?" he asks hesitantly.

Alan can feel his face immediately heat with embarrassment.

"Fine," he replies flatly, dropping his eyes slightly to stare at the ugly paperweight in the shape of a skull on Eric's desk. It was the first Christmas gift that Alan ever gave him—an awkward offering from a new student—and it still makes him smile to remember how Eric had just accepted it. It's been sitting on his desk for decades now. "I'm fine," he repeats.

Eric stares at the paperweight, too, until catching Alan's eye. "Good," he says simply.

It's been several hours since Alan had his attack, and he'd been ushered into Eric's office to regain his strength. It was fortunate that no one had been around to see, and even then, he'd managed to pass it off to a coughing fit. It was only once he was inside and the door was closed that he completely collapsed to the floor, trying to catch his breath and clutching his chest.

Eric had been there with him—Eric was always with him these days—to help him stand up, before settling him down in the chair to recuperate.

When Alan had gone to leave, still weak, Eric had forbade it. Normally, he encouraged Alan to return to his job when he could, but not today.

"You still look pale," Eric finally remarks hesitantly. Now he's not meeting Alan's eyes; it's a good choice, because Alan already knows he can't hide the angry look on his face.

"I'm _fine_," he repeats quietly, but his voice is terse, laced with barely restrained anger. "It was hours ago."

"Very well," Eric finally sighs, giving up the fight and letting the line of questioning drop.

Nevertheless, Eric stands and laces his fingers behind his head, closing his eyes. It's very distinctly one of his thinking poses, and Alan watches him carefully.

Eric walks around to Alan's side of the desk and leans against it, not looking directly at Alan, poking at the hideous paper weight.

"What possessed you to get this?" he asks idly, awkwardly trying to change the subject.

He looks up in surprise as Alan laughs, and finally, a faint smile spreads over his face. Privately, Alan is relieved to see the familiar expression—it's much more suited to Eric's face than worry.

"Fear," Alan replies simply.

"_Fear?_" Eric asks, mystified.

"You're rather intimidating to a junior fresh out of the Academy," Alan remarks, laughing a little. "Tall, unaffected, confident."

Eric smiles a little; there's a strangely soft look on his face, and Alan feels his cheeks heat slightly. He suspects the look is for him, but he tries not to think about it too hard. It's been a rough day, and he's trying to keep his mind focused on simple, uncomplicated things.

Eric moves away from the edge of the desk, and Alan goes to stand, too.

It's a good thing that Eric is watching him out of the corner of one eye, because Alan sinks right back down unsteadily as a wave of dizziness hits him. He usually needs at least a nap to fully recover from a bad episode, and today is no exception.

"Slow down," Eric says softly. Alan barely notices the words or where Eric's gone as he keeps his eyes shut, trying to breathe. He's mortified, and wants to cry or yell, somehow expel the anger and sadness welling up in him.

"It was just a bad one today," Eric's voice comes soothingly, and Alan's eyes open as he feels Eric's hands settle lightly on his shoulders.

It's not so unusual for Eric to touch him more intimately nowadays, given where Alan has practically been living.

Eric seems to be able to read his mind as he murmurs, "Just close your eyes and relax." However, Alan does just the opposite as Eric starts to rub his shoulders.

He's caught between panic and bliss as Eric's hands—strong, reassuring—work at the muscles in his neck and shoulders. Eric's touch is deft and just firm enough to ease the tension, and Alan bites his lip, allowing himself to give in.

After a few minutes of this treatment, Eric tugs at his jacket.

Alan nods, and moves to shrug it off so he's just wearing his shirt. Eric drapes the jacket carefully over the back of the chair, and now, Alan almost groans audibly as Eric's fingers are able to really get into his shoulders.

"A little sore?" Eric asks, his voice uncharacteristically soft, almost hesitant.

Alan just nods, not trusting his own voice to work properly.

"Here?" Eric's fingers push into a particularly agonizing knot near Alan's shoulder blade, and he lets out a moan without meaning to.

Eric doesn't remark on the sound, focusing his energy on working out the knot. The sensation of his sure, steady touch is intoxicating, and Alan's eyes slip shut.

"Better?" Eric asks quietly, bending forward so close that Alan can feel his breath.

He hums an affirmative, and doesn't open his eyes when Eric finally presses a very soft kiss just behind his ear.

It's the first time, but it's not unexpected; not at this point.

There are more kisses—insistent and suddenly urgent—along his neck to his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt.

Alan takes a sharp breath in, and Eric stops, before sliding down to wrap his arms around Alan from behind in an awkward embrace.

Regardless of his surprise, the only thing now that manages to reach Alan's blissed out mind is that Eric smells good, and his arms are warm.

When Eric presses a hand over Alan's heart, though, and asks softly, "All right?" Alan's eyes burn.

He just nods, and tips his head back to look at Eric upside down, and Eric looks down at him.

They stare at each other as Eric's hand slides around to gently stroke the line of Alan's jaw, and then further down to loosen the bolo tie and unfasten the top two buttons of his shirt.

Alan moans softly as Eric reaches into his shirt to graze fingers over his collarbones, the hollow of his throat, and then further to brush against his nipples.

It's first overtly sexual thing Eric has attempted, and Alan's back arches.

"Good," is all he can manage to rasp, "Eric..."

"Alan," Eric replies simply, pinching and stroking at Alan's nipples, before dipping his head to lick and kiss at Alan's neck.

Alan doesn't think, lust and adrenaline and the _relief_ to be feeling something else rushing through him, and he tips his head to the side to bare more of his neck.

He moans softly and his back arches slightly as Eric teases his nipples—always a sensitive place for Alan—and gasps as Eric nips at a particularly tender place on his neck, a pleasant stinging sensation blooming there.

Alan lets out an outright cry, and Eric responds with muffled moan, lost against Alan's skin but distinctly audible.

Everything is suddenly very urgent, desperate, as Eric presses a flurry of kisses to Alan's neck, hair, bites at his earlobe and slurs, "GoodAlan_sogood..."_

Alan touches himself without thinking and fumbles to get his trousers undone. He takes his cock in hand—he's unbearably aroused now—and strokes himself, his hand moving awkwardly underneath the fabric.

His eyes shut tightly as he strokes faster, and when Eric bites that place on his neck again—hard enough this time to hurt, followed by a gentle kiss—he comes. It's embarrassingly quick, but he forgets when Eric lets out a harsh breath.

They don't speak for a moment, staying perfectly still, frozen in place. Alan feels completely disheveled, the dampness of sweat on his skin, his shirt unbuttoned and his tie askew, come sticky on his hand and in his trousers. He feels raw, though, as if he can't catch his breath.

Eric steps around the chair, and Alan can barely bear to look at him. He doesn't have a choice, though, as Eric sinks to his knees to lean forward, place light fingertips against Alan's temples, and kiss him on the mouth.

It's not the kind of kiss Alan would have expected from Eric. It's soft, almost shy, and somehow, has the potential for tears. He's not sure why that word springs to mind, but there's something about the acute vulnerability in the way that Eric moves his lips that makes Alan forget his embarrassment and run his thumb over Eric's cheekbone.

They finally part, and Eric looks as though he doesn't know what to say. Eric's never been particularly good with words to begin with, either.

Alan tries to find words, to say something that makes sense.

He fails, and it's as his mouth is cut off from his brain—or at least his sense of self-preservation—when he blurts out, "I love you."

Eric's eyes widen immediately, but he doesn't draw away. He just studies Alan's face, and after a few moments, leans forward to embrace him again.

"Let's go back to mine."

Alan's scythe hasn't been checked out of General in weeks. He's become more accustomed to sitting in the uncomfortable chair in Eric's office than reaping, or catching up with backlogged reports.

Eric always says "thank you" at the end of the day in the way that only Eric can—truly sincere. Eric never lets anyone do him favors, and Alan knows that even in the current circumstances, he still considers Alan working on _his_ reports to be favors.

It heartens Alan in ways that nothing else ever could.

But now he's feeling defensive since he'd said those words, and he's on the verge of regretting it.

They're in the front hallway of Eric's flat, and it's suddenly awkward in ways it's never been before. Eric's taken his own jacket off, but there's a cool draft that makes Alan shiver, so he leaves his on. It'd seemed so easy in Eric's office, so reassuring, so simple.

Now, Eric asks after a tense moment, as if he doesn't know what else to say, "Do you want some tea?"

Alan nods, and turns toward the bedroom. It suddenly also seems frightening, regardless of the fact that's how this entire thing started.

_It had been simple; could have been. But as was usually the case with anything pertaining to Alan Humphries, it wasn't._

_Alan needed help after the Thorns. He'd have random attacks and need assistance. The first time, he was thankful it was William who'd found him in the tea break room, gasping and clutching his chest. It'd been blamed on indigestion, and was followed up with a terse rebuke for spending too much time with Eric and taking on his bad after-hours habits—the pub, women—even though Alan had a bad feeling._

_After the infirmary returned with a diagnosis, William was no longer terse._

_Eric didn't find out by accident. Alan told him one day, over a pint. _

"_I'm ill," he'd said simply, and taken another sip of his wine._

_It had been an uneventful May evening, flowers blooming outside, a pleasantly defrosted dusk settling over everything. For some reason, it always comforted Alan that spring happened on the Reaper plane in almost the same way as the living world._

"_Ill?" Eric had replied, cocking his head to the side in bemusement. He had been watching a girl behind Alan, grinning and half-listening, as he was wont to do. They spent so much time together, Alan didn't begrudge the occasional lapses in attention, though. He was used to it._

_Alan had his full attention now, though._

"_Ill," Alan had repeated._

"_With _what_?" On occasion, Reapers did get a small case of the sniffles, the occasional hangover, or even seasonal colds, but none of them ever contracted long-lived diseases._

"_Have you ever heard of the Thorns of Death?"_

_Eric just stared at him for a moment._

"_Isn't that a song?"_

"_It is," Alan confirmed. "An old one. A folk song."_

"_About... a demigod that's fated to die unless..."_

"_I never knew anything past the first two verses as a child," Alan had said, shrugging. "But that's what I've got."_

_Eric just stared at him._

"_You've having me on. How can you have a mythical... condition?"_

"_That's what the infirmary said."_

"_When?"_

"_I collapsed."_

_Eric's eyes widened, and his grip tightened around his glass. "When did you collapse? Why didn't you tell me?"_

"_Four weeks ago."_

"_And you've not collapsed since?" The worry in Eric's voice had surprised Alan, though upon later reflection, it seemed silly that he hadn't expected it._

"_No."_

_Eric laughed nervously and clapped Alan on the shoulder. "And you won't. They're nutters, the lot of them. They just want an experiment since they're bored. We don't get sick."_

_Alan had smiled a little; he wanted to believe it, too._

_It didn't last long. The next time was in Eric's office, and it wasn't as tolerable as the first. It was humiliating, as Alan curled into the uncomfortable chair across from Eric's desk, gasping, trying to breathe, his fingers clutching helplessly against the terrible, twisting pain in his chest. It seemed somehow like a slow burn winding through his ribs, squeezing his heart, as if suddenly he was mortal and needed to breathe, only to be pushed under a river. His voice sounded thick and he tried to catch his breath._

_Eric had remained frozen in place, staring, unblinking, until leaping into action and helping Alan down onto the floor._

_Alan had never asked for Eric's help with anything; nevertheless, somehow, Eric had always given Alan the help he needed. If not help, then guidance, as he was supposed to as a mentor when Alan was his junior._

_Eric's voice had seemed distant as Alan fought to control the crippling agony crushing his heart and ribs, but then he heard it, low and calm and soothing._

"_Try to relax. Don't tense up," he was murmuring, and Alan had realized that Eric's arms were around him. He tried to obey, and it helped marginally._

_Finally, it passed, and he skittered away, mortified. Eric let him go, but watched him carefully, as if he was just going to collapse again._

_Alan hadn't, though. He's simply stood up—albeit weakly—straightened his suit, taken a breath and smoothed his hair, and made a hasty retreat through the door._

_Alan was proud and stubborn. It took him a number of episodes to let Eric take him home finally._

'_Just for the night,' Eric had said after a particularly bad incident. 'It's not safe for you to be by yourself.'_

_Alan's pride only extended so far, and he had finally given in, if not grudgingly._

_It was far less awkward than he'd anticipated. Eric was congenial, unworried, and obviously happy to have company. He cooked, and everything seemed almost normal. Alan had been at Eric's many times, but he'd never spent the night._

_The settee was very comfortable, and he slept well. It just so happened that he also stayed the next night, since it seemed prudent._

_Before he realized what was happening, he was at Eric's more than his own flat. He hadn't even had any attacks; he just ended up back there frequently._

_He knew that things had changed when Eric had told him he wouldn't be around that evening, but for Alan to let himself in, have a bit of the dinner he'd made the night before of crusty bread and some sort of thick soup that made Alan salivate just thinking about it, and pressed his key into Alan's hand._

_Alan knew Eric probably had a date or a woman lined up for the night, and he was actually glad of it. Three things that made Eric happy without question were sex, women, and liquor. Alan approved of Eric having a night for himself; he'd been feeling the subtle gnaw of guilt that Eric had to take care of him. He tried not to think about that, though, because then he'd be lured in by the urge to pull away, leave Eric and be by himself._

_Alan had always been alone, and he didn't need someone to care for him. But Eric didn't take care of him; he was simply there if Alan needed him._

_He let himself into the flat that evening. It was a bit drafty and dark, but with a few lamps lit and a book, it was rather pleasant, even without Eric there. Alan would never admit it aloud, but it certainly beat his own lonely flat in terms of comforts._

_It wasn't that late when he decided to go to bed. He'd been trying to follow a human regimen of health—early to bed, early to rise, for example—since his type of affliction was most similar to a human illness. It may not have helped, but it made Alan feel as though he were at least actively doing something._

_Despite his good intentions, he was more tired than he'd thought, and accidentally fell asleep fully clothed with a book resting on his chest. He wasn't asleep for long, since it was the front door that woke him, and he blinked heavily to see Eric standing at the end of the settee, looking at him._

"_Fell asleep early," Eric said in an amused voice, but it was uncharacteristically soft. "Tired?"_

_Alan groaned and smiled lazily, turning onto his side. He set the book on the table in front of him and curled up, as if to stay exactly where he was regardless of the fact that he was still wearing everything except his shoes and jacket._

"_Isn't it early?" he asked suddenly, opening his eyes to look at Eric. _

_Eric just shrugged, and turned away to hang up his jacket._

_That piqued Alan's interest, and he got to his feet to follow Eric into the kitchen._

"_Was General busy?"_

_Eric laughed a little as he rifled around in the icebox, but didn't answer the question._

"_Did you finish the pudding?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Greedy."_

"_You told me to."_

_Eric snorted, and Alan rolled his eyes. "There's custard in the back."_

_That earned a delighted sound out of Eric—the only man who made food and forgot about it—and Alan laughed quietly. _

_Eric settled down with his custard at the table, and Alan just stood awkwardly in the doorway, suddenly feeling out of the place. He crossed his arms, then let them hang at his sides, and then shifted his position. Eric seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, so Alan turned quietly on his heel, hoping not to be noticed, and returned to the sitting room. He had a few articles of clothing at Eric's, and more had accumulated._

_He was suddenly rather embarrassed. It struck him abruptly and unexpectedly, but as soon as the thought entered his mind, it snowballed into full on panic._

_Eric had come back, but why? Why would Eric Slingby return to his own flat early and alone? Well, because Alan was here. Of course that was it. He couldn't bring a woman back, because Alan was here. Not to mention, even if that wasn't the case, maybe he just didn't feel like a night out after all, and wanted to come back to his own flat to relax._

_No one needed a helpless, burdensome interloper, falling asleep on their settee, reading their books, and finishing their pudding._

_Alan felt his face burn as he grabbed his coat from the hall tree, but gathered his composure as he made his way back to the kitchen._

"_I should go home," he said politely, shrugging on his overcoat. "Thank you for everything."_

_That statement was a received with a wide-eyed look that very quickly became dismayed._

"_You're leaving?"_

"_Well... yes."_

_Eric shook his head. "Why?"_

_Alan bit his lip and cringed, not bothering to hide his embarrassment._

"_I'm perfectly fine and there's no reason for me to be here." With his luck, he was bound to have an attack right then, but thankfully, he didn't. "Thank you. I'm sure I'll see you tomorrow at—" _

_Alan wasn't expecting Eric to stand up and take two broad strides across the kitchen to reach him very quickly. The words stuck in his throat as Eric embraced him and held him close; Alan couldn't help the way he abandoned his resolve and immediately wrapped his arms around Eric in return._

_They stood like that for a long time, unmoving and unspeaking, holding each other._

_Finally, when they parted, Eric had looked at him and said simply, "Let's go."_

_Alan's eyes widened, but Eric didn't explain any further, and just walked down the hall toward his bedroom. Not knowing what else to do, Alan had simply followed._

_He stood awkwardly in the doorway, hanging back, though Eric's bed looked invitingly large, very comfortable, and very... Eric. There were a few shirts strewn about the floor, a bottle of cologne on the dresser and not much else, and a few books stacked next to the bed._

"_It's far more comfortable," is all he had said, and then turned away from Alan to go into the small bathroom and shut the door._

_Alan could hear water running, and he looked around, completely unprepared of what to do now. Normally he went into the unexpected with a plan, but he was laid bare now, completely clueless of how to handle Eric's offer._

_Well, except to simply... accept._

_Aside from the implications of sleeping in Eric's bed—whatever they actually _were—_all in all it seemed like an excellent idea from a practical standpoint._

_Alan decided to ignore his own panic, venturing out into the sitting room again to retrieve the pajamas he'd stowed in a small overnight bag, and slip them on. They were warm and completely intended for one who slept alone frequently._

_When he reentered Eric's bedroom, Eric was already in bed, the sheets up to his waist. He wasn't wearing a shirt, but he'd kept some bottoms on for modesty. Alan had a feeling Eric usually slept naked, knowing Eric as he did._

_He'd just stood in the doorway awkwardly, arms around himself, until it became almost comical as Eric picked up a book and started to read. It was then Alan noticed that the opposite side of the bed had the sheets folded down invitingly, and that it was for his benefit._

_He shyly finally made his way across the bedroom and slipped under the covers next to Eric._

"_I like to read before going to sleep," Eric said suddenly, and even he sounded stiff. "Do you mind?"_

_Alan had remained tight-lipped and shook his head 'no.'_

_He'd laid down and curled into himself, his back to Eric who'd propped himself up with two pillows to read._

_He dozed off, and when he woke up again it was dark. The fresh scent of lamp oil was still in the air, and when his eyes fluttered open, he realized that Eric's arms were around him._

_In fact, Eric was pressed against his back, practically curled around him, protective._

_Alan knew it was obvious that he had awoken, when Eric tensed slightly, but he didn't let go._

"_I didn't want to stay out without you there." He said it quietly, somehow still calm in a way that only Eric could manage, regardless of the words' implications._

_Alan didn't trust himself to speak, so he just nodded and made a sound of acknowledgement in the back of his throat._

He didn't leave again, and Eric held him every night. Nothing more, nothing less. They'd stay pressed together. Sometimes, if Alan had a bad episode, Eric would stroke his hair, but that was as far as things had ever gone until today.

Alan enters the bedroom and hesitates. The bed is rumpled from when they got up that morning together, laughing and Eric's arms around him. It's been easy to ignore the obvious and all the complications that come with it, when there are other more pressing things—like terminal illnesses—to pay attention to.

Alan takes two steps back, wrapping his arms around himself.

He's never needed anyone's help before. There's no reason for him to stay exactly. He needn't burden Eric. He needn't demand so much of his former mentor's attention. There's no reason for him to stay. It's better to just say goodbye and—

Eric looks startled as he puts the tray down on the bedside table; he's staring at the jacket still clutched in Alan's hands, and Eric's face falls.

He turns away abruptly, arms wrapped around himself as he walks to the window to look out of it.

"I'm sorry," he says softly, "for today. I didn't..."

"I should go," Alan interjects. He tries to ignore the pang he feels as he says the words.

Eric just shakes his head, but doesn't answer. "Where?" he finally says so quietly that Alan almost misses the question.

"I don't know," Alan says half-heartedly, staring at the floor.

"We can go to bed." He says it as if they can rewind and start the day over, go back to the way things were.

Alan shakes his head even though Eric can't see him, tears stinging his eyes again.

"What's wrong?" Eric asks softly, finally turning.

"I just feel..."

_Small. Ill. Helpless._

"Have a cuppa," Eric interjects, striding over to the bedside purposefully. He looks stern, but still picks up the cup and holds it out to Alan.

He looks at Eric's hand, gingerly holding the delicate teacup, and then up his arm to his shoulder. When he doesn't answer, it's as if Eric knows he shouldn't speak, as Alan slowly takes in every part of Eric. He knows it all by heart by now, but to see him there in the dim light of the room, holding out a teacup, is somehow suddenly surreal.

Alan doesn't meet his eyes, but he does accept that cup. It's steaming with peppermint tea, but when he takes a sip and tries to swallow, his throat is squeezed so tight that he can't manage it. He needs to break down, weep, be alone and lets all of his troubles flow out.

Unexpectedly, a strong pair of fingers tip his face up, and he's forced to meet Eric's eyes.

"You must know that I..." he stops, stumbling over the words suddenly, but he leaves the statement floating in the air.

After a moment, Eric takes the cup from Alan's shaky hand and sets it down on the bedside table, and sits down on the bed.

"There hasn't been anyone else for a long time now," he says quietly, as if he can't say it too loud. Knowing Eric, it's a wonder he said it at all.

Alan has thought about it plenty of times – Eric and him, together, naked, writhing against each other. There were embarrassing nights when he woke up with a very impressive erection, Eric sleeping innocently behind him. It was even worse if Eric's arms were around him, holding him close, as if he was planning to leave in the middle of the night.

Sometimes, he could feel Eric's little reactions in his sleep, too, and Alan would try to fight the urge to just grind back against him, wake him up and turn over and kiss him and do everything he dreamed about.

Alan doesn't know why he's always held back. Maybe, somewhere, he still believed that Eric would reject him.

But they're past the thrill of first kisses. Too many things have happened now for the delight of a newfound attraction to carry the surprise it once may have. Regardless, Alan still felt that surge of emotion when Eric had kissed him for the first time. That will never change; not with Eric, no matter how sick Alan becomes or how bad things get.

Somewhere, Alan knew Eric loved him—if only platonically—from the moment Eric pulled Alan into bed, protected him while not placating him, made him do silly, pointless reports instead of fussing over him in the infirmary.

Eric hasn't looked up at him again, and Alan looks past him. Across the room is Eric's lone dresser with a mirror above it. It's not very large—just big enough to see one's face and torso—but Alan has avoided looking into it every morning since he started routinely sleeping in Eric's bed.

Now, he looks; he stares.

There's a small red mark peeking out above his shirt collar where Eric had bitten his neck before. His buttons are done up to the neck—as they always are—but now more in the interest of hiding the scars on his skin than professionalism. The only one who's seen them is Eric, since Alan does undress in front of him sometimes. Reapers don't get scars, because they don't stay wounded; bodily injury is just another exciting surprise Alan has gotten with his condition.

Sometimes, he wishes he could strip his skin off, too. He feels like he's twisting in it, trying to decide whether he's ready to go or stay.

In his most private moments, Alan thinks about death coming for him; then it occurs to him absurdly that he _is_ death, but he can't even help himself.

"Don't go," Eric says, his voice calm. "Sleep on the settee if you like, but don't go."

"I don't want to go," Alan finally manages to whisper, hanging his head. There's a small stretch of silence, until he asks suddenly, "Have you ever seen those engravings of grim reapers?"

Eric looks up in surprise, his eyebrows raised. "What do you mean?"

"The human versions of death," Alan says, crossing his arms. "You know, the grim reaper—a skeleton in a robe with a giant student scythe?"

Eric gives a bemused laugh, but he seems genuinely curious. "I suppose. Yes, I've seen them. Sometimes humans are gits."

Alan gives a small smile and half of a shrug. "Well," he continues, carefully staring down at a specific knot in the wood floor, "I..."

His voice trails off, but Eric waits expectantly.

"I feel like that," Alan says, as if it explains everything. He's so quiet, he doesn't know if Eric even hears him. "As if I'm wasting away," he continues, and his voice cracks, "and I can't even hold a student scythe for an entire shift, and—"

"You've always been..." Eric interjects, his voice harsh but quiet, resolute, but he trails off, too, as if looking for the right word. "...hard on yourself. Too hard."

Eric shakes his head and scowls at the ground, and then unexpectedly looks up to meet Alan's eyes. Alan can't seem to look away after he's caught in Eric's heavy, burning gaze, entrapped. The only way he obscures that stare is when his own eyes blur with tears.

He wants Eric so badly; it comes upon him like rising floodwater, quick and frightening. Alan has always fought himself—his own desires, weaknesses, instincts. They're always wrong, and he's always weak by his own estimations.

He's perfect by most outward standards—triple As, spotless record, flawless technique—but anyone that knows him will know his secrets. And no one knows him for that reason, except Eric.

Alan takes a few steps forward and tentatively sits down next to Eric on the bed. They don't touch, even though the mattress dips. The expanse between them suddenly seems wider than it's been in a long time—both figuratively and literally—and Alan doesn't have the strength to close it.

Instead, he lies down on his side of the bed, his back to Eric, curled in on himself. He's not even sure this is where he belongs, but there's nowhere else for him to go.

Alan doesn't push Eric away when he follows, stretching out and pulling Alan against his chest.

"I'm sorry for what I said," Alan says after a few minutes of silence, relaxing into Eric's warmth without meaning to. He bites his lip as he feels a very hesitant set of fingers brush over his cheek.

"I'm not," comes the quiet reply.

"When I die," Alan whispers after a moment, "will you plant flowers?"

Eric's fingers abruptly still, and then he clutches Alan tighter, choking back a broken sound.

"You're not going to die," he manages to say roughly.

"Sometimes I think about vines," Alan continues, letting a few tears track silently down his face. He cries far more than anyone knows, even Eric. "How they wind, but not like thorns. More like morning glories."

"What are morning glories?" Eric asks, and Alan takes a silent, heavy breath in when he feels Eric's lips press against his hair. His breath is quick and ragged, and finally, it catches in his throat.

"They're blue," Alan replies, pressing backwards, "and they grow around broken things, forgotten things... anything, really."

When Eric runs one hand lightly over Alan's ribs and down to his hip, it feels like vines growing around his waist, across his shoulders and chest. Then Eric's fingers brush Alan's buttons, and he asks softly, "Can I?"

Alan nods tensely, and he brings his own hand up to tangle with Eric's. Eric kisses his hair reassuringly, and undoes the buttons of his shirt easily; finally, his fingertips skim across Alan's skin.

It almost feels like he's reaching under the skin, climbing inside and winding around his heart, holding back the Thorns that have choked Alan for some time now.

He draws away after a moment, and pulls Alan onto his back. Alan closes his eyes when Eric kisses him. It's unbearably tender; fragile, but not cautious now. Alan breaks the kiss, and finally draws Eric's hand against his lips to kiss the palm.

"You've wanted it, too?" Eric asks softly, drawing away slightly.

Alan nods, closing his eyes.

More tears run down Alan's cheeks silently as Eric starts to kiss his face, neck, and jaw. Eric wipes them away with his thumb, murmuring, "Relax."

Alan shudders; he doesn't know how to stop fighting, even when he wants to. And he does want to stop, because Eric's lips feel perfect against his skin, strong, careful hands tracing over his ribs and then around to his back.

He feels a tremor of lust run through him, and when he opens his eyes, Eric is staring intently at him. A few fingers come up to stroke over Alan's cheekbone in a painfully intimate gesture, and finally, Alan gives in.

It's simpler than he thought it would be, when he finally accepts how much he wants—_needs_—Eric, how it has nothing to with the Thorns.

He tilts his head back, exposing his throat. Eric immediately kisses down to the hollow of it, pushing his tongue there, and Alan moans outright.

"Good?" Eric asks softly.

Alan nods and hums an affirmative sound. He feels Eric take hold of his hand; then there are more kisses pressed against his collarbones through his shirt, down to his nipples—teeth, shocks of pleasure—as Eric attends to him.

His body feels the most alive it has in ages. He wants to let Eric under his skin, touch him everywhere, be wound together without fear.

Alan reaches down to untuck his own shirt, and Eric immediately slides his hand up underneath to glide across Alan's skin.

He reaches out in turn to undo Eric's buttons now, and Eric is happy to oblige.

They've been shirtless together plenty of times—even sleep that way on occasion—but it's never been like this.

Eric shrugs his shirt completely off and presses against Alan's side, tracing over every inch of skin he can touch, pushing Alan's shirt back.

Alan reaches out to grip Eric's shoulder as he pays Alan's nipples further attention, tongue and teeth eliciting maddening sensations. Alan moans, hoarse and desperate, as he arches his back up against Eric's mouth; Eric makes a needy sound in return.

When Eric slides his hand down past Alan's hips, slowly dragging his fingers against Alan's cock, Alan gasps. Eric presses a few slow kisses to Alan's jaw, moving his hand in slow motions as Alan lets out small, raw moans.

He gasps Eric's name, and bends his knees up to spread his legs further apart, rocking against Eric's hand.

Eric groans, and his entire body arches toward Alan as he starts to stroke through the fabric of Alan's trousers.

Alan rolls over to face Eric, and it's Eric's turn to gasp as Alan reaches between them to stroke Eric in tandem.

There are no words, only gasps and whimpers as they get each other off, face to face, almost clumsy. Finally, Eric abandons hands in favor of gripping Alan's ass and pulling him forward so that their hips are rocking together, their cocks rubbing and pressed together through the fabric as they frot against each other.

Eric's body is warm and familiar and Alan wants to make him come, to reach that place together. All it takes is a few deft caresses of fingers against Eric's nipples for him to come, and he tenses against Alan, his face pressed against Alan's shoulder as his body jerks.

"_Yes, yes_," he's murmuring, relaxing as he slides his fingers into Alan's hair and kisses his forehead. He reaches between them again to unzip Alan's trousers, reach inside, and stroke him outright. Alan's cock is slick with precome, and Eric rubs his thumb against the head, smearing it around.

Alan's mouth opens in a cry that doesn't quite make it out with voice—just a desperate breath—and comes in Eric's hand.

Eric slowly pulls his hand out of Alan's trousers and splays it across Alan's back, holding him close as they cling to each other, both catching their breath.

A few minutes pass, and without saying anything, Alan finally moves to push his trousers off; Eric does the same, and they press back against each other.

Alan takes the opportunity to trail his fingers up Eric's side, tracing every shape he comes across—bone, muscle, skin—sighing and closing his eyes. He's wanted this for so long that it almost doesn't seem real. It's as if he's been trying to walk a tightrope, but when he finally gave up his balance to fall, he'd landed in the unexpected safety of Eric's arms.

"That feels nice," Eric murmurs sleepily in response to Alan's fingertips stroking his skin, nuzzling his face against Alan's.

Alan smiles a little and trails his fingers up Eric's side to his back, down his spine to his hip and then lets his hand rest there.

This bed will never be the same, the air filled now with the smell of sex, a faint trace of Eric's cologne, sweat, and Alan's sure he's mixed in there somewhere, though he has no idea what he smells like to Eric.

"What do I smell like?" he asks quietly. Eric's shoulders tense with mild laughter, and he kisses Alan's forehead.

"You come up with the strangest questions."

"Humor me."

"You smell like grass," Eric replies immediately, as if he's already thought about it. "Like fresh grass, or something... green. Like morning glories?"

"Morning glories don't have a smell, exactly," Alan corrects, sliding his hand up to tangle in Eric's hair—he loves Eric's hair, fascinated by the braids and soft fall of blond since they met.

Alan fully intends to clean them both up, but the post-orgasmic bliss is too great, and they fall asleep against each other, arms around one another with Eric's lips pressed against Alan's hair.

Alan dreams of flower beds, blooming in spring, climbing walls.


End file.
